In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(7)

“What makes you think so?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “That mechanism, it doesn’t work, in me. I don’t mean to be a tease, or cruel, or . . . or disdainful. I never wanted to be a frigid bitch. It’s sad and it’s awful, but it’s the truth. It’s my reality, and I’m sorry if I . . . I’m just so sorry.”

He processed that. “So we’ll work on it,” he offered. “I felt a lot of potential, back there in Bruno’s office. We’ll fix it. No biggie.”

“No biggie, he says.” Her voice was strangled. “Don’t try to rescue me from my past. You’ll just hurt yourself. It’s bigger than you are.”

“How would you know how big I am?”

She shot him a glance and snorted, reddening.

“I didn’t say it,” he crowed, delighted. “It was you.”

“English is not my first language,” she said haughtily. “Don’t try to trap me in word games. I will never get the joke.”

She wasn’t pulling away. He stroked her shoulders, encountered the straps that held up the cups of gathered fabric that her perfect tits were nestled in. He flicked the ribbons down. Her eyes widened as the fabric slid down—catching on her nipples. She jerked her hands up—

Or tried to. He caught them up short, staring into her eyes as the cups slid down to dangle over the shell of the bustier.

She didn’t fight, didn’t flail. Just stood there, breath stuttering rapidly in and out. Her high, beautiful breasts bared to him.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “I’ve lain awake nights staring at the ceiling, imagining you exactly like this.”

He felt his way, slowly. Using those secret senses that jolted to life only when she was near. Eyes and ears that opened only for her. He strained for more. He wanted inside her hidden depths, to take possession. He waited, savoring the tension, until he dared to risk sliding his hands up to cup her breasts, with fingers that trembled.

A ripple went through her, then a sighing, barely audible moan. He caressed her, tender, spiraling whorls over and around her taut, deep pink nipples, the soft, plump under-curve, the tender fullness. So perfect. Springy, luscious. Suckable. But not now, because she’d rested her head on his shoulders, and the slight, warm weight of her head upon him was such a miracle in itself, he didn’t dare mess with it.

He inhaled her scent. Warm and spicy and sweet. Her hair had come unpinned, and the thick horsetail draped over his arm, making him wish his arm was bare. His sleeve blocked out the live heft of that heavy silken rope. His fingers buzzed. She was actually letting him touch her. It put him in a state of trembling, worshipful awe.

She twisted around and looked up. Lips in reach.

That was it, just like the last time. Conscious control vanished.

She melted into him, arms twined around his neck. Oh, God, that sweet, tender inside flavor, the impossible softness of her lips. A swift glance yielded scant possibilities for taking this tryst horizontal. The floor was gleaming oak. Spindly legged chairs, tables with runners, antique breakables. No couches or lounges. So it was the wall again. He could deal with gravity. What was upper-body strength for, after all.

He scooped her up. A few steps, and he pinned her to the closest bare spot of wallpaper, fiercely intent upon tasting, touching, knowing more. He leaned to kiss her breasts, and she moaned, rib cage heaving, fingers twining in his hair. He lifted armfuls of skirt, slid his hand up her thigh. Hot, smooth. Stretchy lace, soft skin, filmy silk stretched over tender girl parts, the moisture seeping through. The heat, the wet. He couldn’t wait to taste it. Lick it. Get inside. Deep inside. Oh, God, now. The wanting was a huge, feral beast inside him, clawing to get out.

Her thighs trembled. He slid his finger under the elastic, into silky folds that yielded sweetly, pressing deeper into a hot, slick paradise—

Rap, rap, rap. “Sveti? Sveti! Petrie? You in there?”

Rap, rap rap rap rap, louder and sharper. Tam’s voice. A brief pause and then again, rattling at the locked door. Rap, rap, rap. “Sveti? Goddamnit, answer me!” Her voice was sharp with alarm.

Fuck. What, was he under some kind of a curse?

Sveti struggled out of his grip, batting his hands away. She smoothed her hair, shoehorned her tits back into the satin cups, wiping her mouth, all to no avail. She still looked like a woman who’d just been madly making out. Tousled, flushed, damp, dazed, blurred. Fuckable.

“Just a second!” she called, her voice shaking. “Coming!”

Oh, how he wished. It wouldn’t have taken long to get her off, and explosively. She’d been almost there. It was so goddamn cruel.

Sveti jerked her chin toward the door. “Open it for them.”

He did so reluctantly, as it rattled on its hinges.

“Sveti, open this goddamn door or I will break it down!”

Oh, man. Nick Ward’s voice. He was meat. He snapped the lock and leaped swiftly back as the door flew open. Nick, Tam, and Val burst through. They stared at Sveti. Color streaked her cheekbones. Her makeup was a blotchy mask. Their accusing gaze swiveled to Sam.

“What the f*ck is going on?” Nick demanded.

“Where’s Miles?” Tam asked.

Sam shrugged. “He had some urgent stuff to do.”

“Did he?” Tam’s gaze dropped to Sam’s crotch, which was still not quite presentable, despite the stressful and disappointing situation. Her mouth tightened. “I’m going to have a talk with him about that.”